


Don't Mess With Brooklyn

by cazei



Series: Newsies Works by Readeatsleeprepeat [6]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: But it's there, Fuck Queens, Hurt Race, Hurt/Comfort, I'll change the archive warnings if asked, It's not a lot, M/M, Protective Spot, Race gets into a fight, Violence, but not too bad, i started swearing at one point in this and kept going, i've never been to ny please forgive the lack of geographical description
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-25 09:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10761186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cazei/pseuds/cazei
Summary: "Sit," He says simply."I can patch myself up, thank you very much," Race says. They both catch the lie, which is a feat in itself, and all Spot has to do is tilt his head and Race is haphazardly pulling himself onto the counter.-Race gets into a fight, and Spot patches him up afterward.





	1. bloody knuckles

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy

Race, frankly, was annoyed.

He’d been off bed rest for a week. Seven days since he had a fever and Spot is still having Sling follow him whenever he’s in Brooklyn.

"Sling," Race calls bordely, and the Brooklyn newsboy strolls toward him from the shadows that were hiding him in the alley.

"How’d you see me?" Sling asks, grinning.

"You've been following me for a week, Sling. I just assume you’re following at this point."

Sling shrugs and leans against a wall. "I’m just doing what Spot tells me to do."

"If Spot doesn’t trust me in his own borough, have him tell me himself," Race says grumpily.

Sling scoffs. "I doubt this is a matter of trust."

Race glances at him from the corner of his eye. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Sling shrugs. "You’ll know."

After a master eye roll, Race sighs. "Fine, don’t tell me."

Sling stares at him for a moment tosses him a coin and takes a paper from beneath his arm. It’s too much for one paper, but Race pockets it anyway.

"A pape, sir?" Race asks a passerby, makes another penny, and pockets it, all before realizing that Sling is still there. He’s leaning against the wall, reading the paper he bought. "You’re a newsie, you already know what the stories are on."

"It’s from Manhattan," Sling mutters distractedly.

"Same news," Race scoffs, though he isn’t entirely sure. "You plannin’ on staying here all day?"

"Yup," Sling says, popping the ‘p’ and flipping a page.

Race rolls his eyes and collects his papers. He notices Sling eyeing him over his open paper.

"Where you goin’?" Sling asks.

"If you’re following me all day, we might as well go to the races," Race says.

—

"That’s not how gambling works," Race informs a confused Sling, who had been painfully incorrect on Race’s hobbies. "You know, for someone who’s always following me, you’d think you knew more about gambling. Or at least anything."

"Shush," Sling grumbles. "I’m just doing my job."

"Which I still don’t understand," Race says with a shrug. "How does following me around all day help Brooklyn at all?"

"I’m just doin' it so Spot doesn’t have to," Sling says with a sigh. "I’ve said this before."

"And I still don’t know what you mean."

"You will."

"Stop saying that!"

Race throws a newspaper at Sling, who, in turn, gives him a friendly shove. This escalates, never more than jokingly, to shoving and yelling insults at each other, until they’re asked to leave.

Race is surprised, he didn’t think he knew anyone from Brooklyn well enough to joke like that.

They walk for a bit, trying to get rid of Race’s left over papers. Somehow, they end up crossing Brooklyn without realizing.

"We’re near Queens," Sling groans after a while. Race frowns.

"Aren’t you on good terms with Queens?"

"Yeah, no." Sling scoffs. "Coupla weeks ago they tried to sell on our turf, so we soaked them. They’ve been at our throats ever since."

Race sighs. "We’re all newsies. Shouldn’t we be, like, united?"

"It’d take a lot for that to happen."

Race stares at the boundary between Brooklyn and Queens. He’s a long way from Manhattan now.

"Let’s get back to the bay," Sling says. "It’s not safe over here."

Naturally, that’s when it all goes to Hell.

A group of boys, maybe five or six of them, stare at them from Queens.

Sling takes a breath and grabs Race’s arm, tugging him back.

"Don’t turn around, let’s just go."

Race struggles to get out of his grip but can’t. He glances back, struggling to twist. The six boys are still staring at them, but he thinks that they’ve moved closer.

They meet his eye and break into a run.

"Sling?" Race says quietly. No newsies is willing to give up a fight, especially when it’s a Brooklyn newsie; however, when it’s six against two, one of which from Manhattan and therefore uninvolved, it’s not really a fight.

Sling whips around, cusses, and breaks into a run, pulling Race with him.

"Too scared to fight, ey?" A Queens newsie taunts.

"As fun as that may seem," Sling yells, "Maybe another time!"

They actually seem as if they might get away, but this is Race we’re talking about, remember? His foot catches on a grate, and he goes tumbling to the street. Sling skids to a stop ahead of him, struggling to backtrack and help him up, but he’s already fallen.

The Queens boys catch up to them.

Race is too flustered, his heart is pounding so quickly he can hardly breathe, that he can barely process what’s happening.

The Queens newsboys are yelling, taunting. They yell about the boroughs, and they yell against Brooklyn.

Race is aware of pain all over his body, and he realizes that they’re kicking him, hitting him.

No, this isn’t happening.

He knows how to fight; he’s good at it. He’s not going to let some posh Queens kids beat him up.

He kicks out wildly, knocking a few of them away. From the corner of his eye, he can see that Sling is keeping several of them occupied.

The three boys attacking Race step back, laughing. They allow him to stumble slowly to his feet.

He stares back at them, vision fuzzy. A taller boy spits in the dirt near him.

“You serious?” One laughs.

Race scoffs, and he thinks there's blood on his chin.

“I’m from Manhattan,” He scoffs. “It’ll take more than a group of newsboys who are too pathetic to stick to their boundaries to stop me.”

The three share a look before glaring back at him. Race rolls his eyes. Great.

The first boy advances, swinging at his ear. Race sidesteps and strikes him in the jaw. Once he crouches over, Race kicks him in the stomach and he goes down.

The other two approach at the same time now, and Race swears, spitting out blood.

One of them punches him in the stomach, and he keels over just as the other kicks at his knees. Race hunches over but not before swiping out at both of them.

Race falls to his knees, coughing. He sees a fist come flying towards him, and he flinches back. But the punch never comes.

Race looks up, confused. Sling stands there, his knuckles bloodied, panting.

“You’re welcome,” Sling mutters.

All six of the Queens newsboys have definitely seen better days. A few of them lay on the ground, and one or two are leaning against walls.

Sling offers a hand to Race, who takes it and hauls him to his feet.

Sling studies the other newsies.

“Don’t mess with Brooklyn,” He says, sighing. “Come on, Race.”

They shuffle away without another glance at their attackers.

Hah, Race thinks, don’t mess with Brooklyn.

—

After a quarter of a mile, Race has taken note of all of his injuries. Bruised torso, bleeding knuckles, possibly-sprained wrist, bleeding lip and forehead, and bruised cheekbone.

What the hell am I going to tell Jack, Race thinks. He’ll never let me come back, not with all this drama between Queens and Brooklyn. He’d hate to get Manhattan involved.

—

An hour later and they’re finally near the bridge and docks again.

“Almost there,” Sling huffs. “We’ve probably got bandages in the Lodge.”

Race laughs. “There’s no way that I’m going to the Brooklyn Lodge house twice in one week.”

“There’s no way I can let you go to Manhattan like this.”

Race scoffs. “As if anyone actually cares.”

There’s a voice behind them. “What the hell happened.”

It’s Blue, Spot’s second in command.

“Queens,” Sling says. “What else?”

“Spot’s going to be pissed. Is that Race?” Blue says, blinking at him. Race sighs.

“Yes,” Sling says. “I’m dead, right?”

“Can I speak at your funeral?” Blue asks.

Race tilts his head. “I’m sure it won’t be that bad. You’ve had conflict with Queens before.”

“You haven’t,” Blue mutters.

“Yeah? So? I’m not bringing Manhattan into this; you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Blue and Sling share a look, glance at Race, and then at each other again before laughing. Sling ends up stopping, wincing and holding his ribs, so Blue puts an arm around his shoulder to hold him up.

“Let’s get you two some pain medicine,” Blue says. “And back to Manhattan before…Yeah, let's go."

They walk through streets and alleys, and Race can finally see the Lodge. They’re nearly to the door when a voice from the docks calls them.

“Blue!” Spot yells. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t turn around,” Blue mutters and turns. “I’ll be back, Spot, just getting some food!”

The lie doesn’t sell, though, because Blue swears and mutters, “He’s walking over. Sling, take Race inside.”

But, before they can go through the door, Spot says, “Is that Racetrack?” A pause. “Is that blood?”

Sling sighs and turns both of them around. Spot’s face is blank when Race looks at him.

“What happened?” Spot says, his voice sharp.


	2. twisted bandages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Spot, I'm fine," Race calls as the doors slam behind him. "I should get back to Manhattan."
> 
> "Like hell," Spot calls back. "Last time you were in Manhattan, you has the flu for a week, Race."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, another shortish chapter. This will most likely be the second to last, so yay?
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> I'm updating soon-ish because I literally have nothing else to do!!

“Hey, Spotty,” Sling says, stepping in front of Race.

“Sling,” Spot addresses coldly. “Why do you and Race look like you got hit by a train?”

Neither Sling nor Race respond.

“Trouble with Queens is what Sling told me,” Blue says, stepping in front of Sling, who’s still in front of Race.

Spot frowns, the first show of emotion other than blatant numbness. “ _More_? I thought we discussed this with Chow. We should be on decent terms now.”

Sling coughs, and Blue moves over. “I don’t think they were with Chow, they were just tryin' to be tough. Nothin’ to worry about, Spot.”

Spot glances at Race and then turns to Sling again. “Nothin’ to worry about? Sling, Manhattan is now involved. Kelly is going to be pissed. You two look like you’ve been dragged through a gutter.”

Blue rolls his eyes. “Manhattan isn’t involved, Race is. Kelly will be fine as long as Race is, and both of us are fine.”

Spot scans Race. “Sling, Race’s wrist is sprained.”

Sling whips around to look at Race. “Oh. He didn’t say anything.”

Spot stares past all of them for a moment, eyes glazed. Suddenly he releases a shuddering breath and buries his head in his hands.

“You’re all morons,” He breathes out, his voice a slight mumble.

Blue and Sling exchange a look. “Thanks, Spot,” Blue says.

“Blue,” Spot says, “just take care of Sling. Race, come on.”

“You sure you don’t want us to help?” Sling asks.

“I’m sure you’ve helped enough,” Spot says, his voice all-too-cheery, turning briskly and storming into the Brooklyn Lodge. Race swallows. “Racetrack.”

Race groans and follows him up the steps, ignoring Blue and Sling’s bickering.

"Spot, I'm fine," Race calls as the doors slam behind him. "I should get back to Manhattan."

"Like hell," Spot calls back. "Last time you were in Manhattan, you has the flu for a week, Race."

"Why do you even care?" Race exclaims, following Spot's footsteps as he weaves through the empty bunkhouse.

"As I told Jack," Spot starts.

" _You_ spoke to _Jack_?" Race exclaims.

"--You're honorary Brooklyn, Racetrack. You're here more often than not. I can't have you ruining our reputation."

Race sighs. "Right. As if you don't do that yourself."

"Watch it, Higgins."

"How do you know my name?"

Spot turns and walks backward. "I know a lot of things."

"What the _hell_ are you implying?" Race says, only half joking. Spot shrugs and turns back around. "Funny."

Spot leads him to the far wall where his bedroom is.

"As great as a nap seems, Spot, I really should get back," Race tries again. He doesn't really need to get back, no one would miss him. He just has a feeling that everyone else knows something he doesn't, and he just wants the comfort and safety of being the best poker player in Manhattan. Of course, he's the best in Brooklyn, but _that's_ beside the point.

"We're not here to get beauty sleep, Higgins," Spot says, walking past his door. Race holds out his hands and mimics choking.

"You know," Spot calls behind him, "if my newsies saw that, they'd soak you."

"Already been soaked, Spot. Doubt it'd do much difference."

Spot shrugs, ignoring him for the most part. He curls behind a bunk, going into a small, narrow hallway.

"Where are we going?" Race asks, only to get the creak of footsteps in an old, wooden hallway as a response. "Spot?"

"Do you ever shut up?" Spot groans. "That's a real question. Race, this is the bathroom. I'm going to patch you up."

Race stops. "Why?"

Spot lets out an exasperated breath. "Shut up."

\--

The lighting is bright and artificial, more than usual, in the bathroom. There's an old toilet in one corner, dust everywhere, and a small counter and sink.

Race crosses his arm in the doorway, ignoring the excruciating pain it sends through his bones.

Spot simply gives him a look and pulls his arms apart, leading him by a hand on the elbow to the counter.

"Sit," He says simply.

"I can patch myself up, thank you very much," Race says. They both catch the lie, which is a feat in itself, and all Spot has to do is tilt his head and Race is haphazardly pulling himself onto the counter.

Spot kneels down and pulls a box from the cupboard. He sorts through it and snorts.

"Remind me to have Blue restock our medical kit."

"Remind me to tell you I'm not Brooklyn," Race says, leaning back against the mirror. Spot gives him a sharp look from the floor, but he doesn't comment.

Spot straightens, placing the kit onto the counter next to Race, who's swinging his legs.

"Let's see," Spot says, shuffling through the box. Race leans over, obstructing Spot's view of the box. Spot takes his shoulder and pushes him back lightly. "Are you _trying_ to be difficult."

"You're impossible," Race says sharply, reopening the wound on his lip. Spot gives him a dry look and hands him a piece of cotton from the kit without looking.

"I need to wrap your wrist," Spot mutters. "Where're the bandages?"

Race, cotton against his lip, sighs. "For someone so keen on patching me up, you sure suck at it."

"You're lucky you're already hurt, Higgins," Spot mutters, pulling out a long string of brown fabric. "Here they are," He mutters. "Hold out your arm."

Race is apprehensive. "How do I know you know what you're doing?"

"Bandage a wrist? And just how many injuries do you think I can avoid with a job like mine?" Spot says sarcastically. "I know how to bandage an arm, Race."

Race concedes without a word; he's lost this argument.

Twisting the bandage around Race's arm, Spot watches from the corner of his eye as Race tries to hide flinches and winces with every tug.

"I'll get you some ice," Spot says, looking past Race when he's tied off the bandages.

Without another word, Spot flies out of the room, as calm as he can. He shuts the door too forcefully behind him and leans back against it.

_What was he thinking?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lowkey ship Blue and Sling, even though I made them up for this. 
> 
> Highkey am motivated by comments. Even though I don't respond to often, I read all of them and appreciate every single one of them so so so so so much!!!
> 
>  
> 
> (edit, twenty minutes after i posted this: lmao i'm 200 words into the next chapter and spot got real gay real fast, comments motivate me to finish and post fyi,, lmao i'm terrible)


	3. beating hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's never just Racetrack, though, is it?
> 
> Short answer: no. 
> 
> Long answer: Sweaty palms, uncontrollable heartbeat, racing thoughts. The feeling of freefall and waves beneath your feet, and stability, all at once. Uncontrollable happiness and overwhelming fear and anxiety. A smile on one's face, and a scowl hiding it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got a lot gayer since my last update i was just in a gay mood  
> (i am the gayest asexual i stg) 
> 
> this is also the first chaptered work i've finished? i mean it's only like 3-4k but still 
> 
> enjoy

After taking several calming breathes, Spot steadies himself and walks back into the room.

 _This is good_ , he thinks. _This is fine. It's just Racetrack._

It's never _just_ Racetrack, though, is it?

Short answer: no.

Long answer: Sweaty palms, uncontrollable heartbeat, racing thoughts. The feeling of freefall and waves beneath your feet, and stability, all at once. Uncontrollable happiness and overwhelming fear and anxiety. A smile on one's face, and a scowl hiding it.

So, no. Racetrack is never that simple to Spot. Even _implying_ that he could be single layered amuses Spot because that seems nearly impossible.

Imagine the most complex, beautiful thing, and try to put it on paper. It's good, yeah, but it's not the real thing.

That's Racetrack.

Racetrack who is also bleeding, in pain, and alone, because, _fuck, does Spot need priorities._

Spot grabs the ice he promised -- which is rare for newsies to get in summer anyways, so if Race doesn't appreciate it, he'll be _pissed_ \-- and pushes the door back open.

Race is staring into the mirror, pressing the soaked cotton to his forehead, and Spot hears an  _are-you-kidding-me_ sigh escape his lips before he can stop it.

Race doesn't turn, but their eyes meet in the mirror.

"Thanks," Race says genuinely when Spot tosses him the ice.

"Don't mention it," Spot grunts. "You did, after all, get soaked in my territory."

Race grins lazily. "What, feelin' guilty because you couldn't control every last thing that happens in your borough or something?"

_Or something._

Spot shrugs. "Just press that ice to your wrist, it's not that hard."

Race simply glares in response.

Spot walks over, takes the bag of ice from his hand, and lightly presses it atop the bandages. Race glances up, and he realizes that Spot is a few inches from his face, staring down at his arm.

Race looks away.

Spot looks down at the motion, and his nose is nearly in Race's hair. He flinches back, causing Race to jolt back.

He plays it off by pulling gauze out of the kit, but Race is already looking at him oddly.

"I'm-I'm going to wrap this around your forehead," Spot, the never-faltering king of Brooklyn stutters.

Race shrugs, but there's something new hidden in it.

Spot wraps the gauze around his ears, under Race's shaggy curls, and around his head a few times.

When the blood doesn't immediately soak through, he rips the gauze off and considers that job done.

Okay, Spot thinks, wrist done, lip done, forehead done. What's next?

_Ah. Right. The bruises._

"Take off your shirt," Spot says, sounding a lot calmer than the anxiety rushing through him. _This doesn't mean anything, this doesn't mean anything._

 _This is_ illegal _._

Race frowns, though. "Why?"

"I need to make sure you're not cut anywhere else," Spot says simple, as if it isn't the hardest explanation in the world, mainly because it's a cover.

"I'm not hiding any other injuries, Spot," Race says, rolling his eyes. "You'd probably kill me."

Spot grins despite himself. "Glad the message got across."

When neither adds anything, Spot busies himself by inspecting the bruises showing on Race's arms.

"Can I ask you a question?" Race asks.

Spot freezes. "Yeah, I guess."

"Why are you doing this? And give me an honest answer, not that reputation bullshit," Race says, looking genuinely curious.

Spot takes a breath, leaning back to look Race in the eye.

"Okay, you want to know?" He asks, and Race looks surprised but nods. "I...You're a friend, Race. Don't look so surprised, you think I open Brooklyn borders for anyone? No, I don't."

Race tilts his head. "I thought Mr. King Of Brooklyn didn't have friends."

"He doesn't," Spot says, shrugging. "Spot does--I do."

"This is weird," Race grins. "Seeing you all touchy-feely." A considering pause while Spot exhales and realizes the damage of oversharing. "So, Spot, as your best friend, can I get full Brooklyn privileges?"

Spot glares. "Funny. You're no longer my friend."

Race pouts. "You're no fun."

"Have you met me?"

"Unfortunately-- _Hey_ , don't shove me! I'm injured!"

Spot rolls his eyes. "Oh, so you're hurt _now_? You're absolutely unbelievable. I should ban you from Brooklyn."

"You wouldn't dare," Race gasps.

Spot hums. "Yeah, that's the thing: I would."

"And here I thought we were friends."

"I am never speaking to you again," Spot says, shaking his head. "Next time I'll leave you to Queens."

"Aw, but Spot," Race whines as Spot puts the medical kit back under the cupboard, "who would you play cards with?"

"I never play cards with you."

"Correction: Aw, but, Spot, who would I sit near while I rob their newsies of every penny they bet?"

Spot shakes his head. "I'm serious, I genuinely hate you."

The funny this is, Race can't tell if he's joking or not.

"I guess I'll walk home by myself then," Race says, hopping off the counter. Spot crosses his arms and watches him leave. "And I think I'll have to remiss on this little conversation with Jack. After all, who else am I going to talk to? My only friend here hates me!"

Spot's jaw drops as Race walks out the door. "You _rat_! This conversation never happened! Race, are you listening?" Spot storms after him. "Race!"

\--

The two newsies sit against a brick wall in an alley, mere blocks away from the Lodge.

Race is panting, sitting because he's out of breath. Spot is staring at him, sitting so he can glare at Race from eye level.

"Why did you run minutes after Queens gave you a beating, idiot?" Spot asks, genuinely curious. "Are you trying to pass out?"

"Y-you're terrifying when you-u yell," Race breathes, grinning.

Spot rolls his eyes. "I wasn't gonna hurt you. Unless, you know, you gave someone the impression that I was, in any way, your friend."

Race grins, eyes shut and head against the bricks, "Worried about your reputation, Spot?"

Spot rolls his eyes. _If only._

_If only it was just his reputation he was worried about, and what would happen if his secret was to get out._

In short: Spot and Race would be no more.

"Come on," Spot mutters, pulling himself and then Race to their feet. "Let's get you back to Manhattan before you get soaked again."

Race stares at him for a second too long before blinking and looking away.

"Sure," He agrees easily. Spot gives him an odd look, but Race doesn't catch it.

The walk to the bridge is silent.

Kidding. This is Brooklyn, nothing is silent.

They walk from the alley to the boarding house when an odd, not bad but uncommon, sight stops Race in his steps.

Blue and Sling stand inches apart in a dark alley, mouth on mouth.

Spot sees too, but Race notes that he doesn't look surprised. Then, he remembers Racetrack and drags him into another alley.

Race watches as Spot, who was just careful and kind with him, tugs his uninjured wrist with cold urgency.

Spot stops abruptly and turns toward him.

"You didn't see that, _alright_?" He says coldly.

"Spot-"

"No, these are my friends. They are not going to get hurt because we were...I was irresponsible. "

"Spot," Race tries again.

"I swear, Race, if they get arrested-"

"Spot!" Race interrupts. "I'm fine with it! I wouldn't do that to them!"

Spot pauses in his ramble, looking confused.

"You're...Fine with it?" There are multiple emotions on his face, battling to be dominant. 

"Don't repeat this, but you do realize I live with Mush and Blink, right?" Race says. "And Jack. It's against the law, but when have newsies ever listened to the law?"

"Race," Spot says, "Manhattan is smaller, you're a family. I'm thrilled, _honestly_ , that you're not going to rat them out, but it's not as calm here."

"I never said it was calm in Manhattan," Race says, an odd look on his face. "I meant that it's not something I personally disagree with. Not like it's a choice, yeah?"

Spot blinks. A lot.

"Let's just drop it, okay?" Race says. "Trust that I won't say anything, and we can move on."

A nod from Spot and a grin from Race are exchanged.

"Let's go," Spot says, partially in shock.

He's seen people be beaten and killed in the street for being gay. He's heard homophobic slurs more often than his own name at times. To hear Race talk about it so calmly... Well, it calms him, too.

Spot reminds himself that he has a borough to run, kids to feed, and papers to sell; he cannot afford to get his hopes up. He cannot afford hope.

\--

The last words Race speaks to him before going into the Manhattan Lodging House are a quiet but firm, "You know, I consider you a friend, too, Spot."

Spot stares at Race, cursing himself mentally for telling him they were friends because this is definitely harder, and why the hell is Race so perfectly imperfect?

And then Race turns, and he's gone, leaving Spot to his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, it's over. comment away if you want.
> 
> yeah there's going to be more in this series bc i have nothing better to do. message me suggestions on tumblr @read-eat-sleep-repeat. 
> 
>  
> 
> Note: yeah i don't think race would just out blink/mush and jack, but i think he trusts spot enough to tell him that, hoping it would also defuze the situation. however, take that event as you will.
> 
>  
> 
> Note: So, I wasn't going to make this a relationship-as-endgame series. Just mostly pre-relationship. Now, I think I've changed my mind. I was researching LGBT+ relationships in the 1890-1900's. I know that there was no way to be out, but they did happen in secret. As unlikely as it may seem, I think it would've been possible for S/R to have some sort of relationship, albeit hidden, during this time, implying these characters as historical figures. 
> 
> Anyhow, i'm already butchering a lot of history with this, even though i wanted to be as accurate as possible, so screw it, everyone's gay.


	4. what's next?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> please read!!

hello! so, no, this isn't a chapter. apologies. 

i didn't get many/any comments on the last chapter, so i figured if i did this more people would see it. 

is there any prompts/tropes people want me to cover in the next few works of this series? 

i'm not promising to do each one, but hearing your feedback and ideas would help me greatly!

anyhow, i hope you enjoyed this work! 

(i'll delete this chapter once i get a few ideas, but for now i'm stumped.) 

thanks so much! i appreciate every single one of you!!

**Author's Note:**

> comments literally inspire me to write more, so comment away! or don’t! i won’t know if you don’t, only if you do!


End file.
